


Romance in the Rain

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Series: Ineffable Valentine's [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Don't copy to another site, First Kiss, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Ineffable Valentines 2020 (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, and a certain Crowley looking actor, mention of Romeo and Juliet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22898740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Crowley tries to come up with the perfect first kiss for Aziraphale, but Mother Nature doesn't want to co-operate.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Valentine's [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1625005
Comments: 23
Kudos: 129
Collections: Ineffable Valentines 2020





	Romance in the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Ineffable Valentine's prompt 'kiss'.

“Come on, come on, come on!” Crowley mutters at the clouds overhead, scowling as if they’ve done him a grievous and unforgivable wrong.

“Is there ( _*gulp*_ ) something the matter, my dear?” Aziraphale squeaks as they swerve left and fly past a hearse, coming so perilously close to the vehicle they’re in danger of causing additional casualties among the living occupants. But it’s par for the course. Crowley has spent more time driving with his eyes on the skies than on the road ahead of him. They’ve scattered a group of businessmen, nearly clipped a planter, and sent a traffic cop writing a citation careening backwards, the Bentley long gone before the poor bastard knew what hit him.

Aziraphale wishes they could have stayed at Crowley’s flat, and not just because of the current danger of losing life and limb. They were having a splendid time. At least, _he_ thought so. They’d been sitting on the sofa sharing a bottle of brandy (at noon on a Tuesday, but Aziraphale reasoned it’s five o’clock somewhere) as they watched _Romeo and Juliet_ on the BBC starring a promising older gentleman that reminded him of Crowley if he squinted his eyes and tilted his head just so.

It was the perfect day for cuddling on the sofa - cold and gray, clouds clustered above threatening rain, granting it in spurts. Aziraphale had sniffled once or twice over the performance - he’s angel enough to admit it. He couldn’t help himself. He loves sweeping romances, and _Romeo and Juliet_ is about as sweeping as one can get.

And if he happened to imagine that Crowley-looking actor playing opposite himself once or twice - caressing his face, looking into his eyes, kissing him passionately (which they’ve had yet to do) - who could blame him?

He thought he’d caught Crowley glance over at him on a few occasions, probably rolling his eyes at Aziraphale’s blubbering. But romance isn’t Crowley’s thing.

Never has been as far as Aziraphale could remember.

“We’ve seen this play about a thousand times already,” Crowley had said. “You’d think you’d remember that they die in the end. And take pretty much everyone with them along the way.”

“I know, I know,” Aziraphale whimpered, patting his pockets for a handkerchief, accepting one from Crowley when it was thrust toward him. “It’s just … it gets me thinking. That’s all.”

“Thinking about what?”

“About love,” he’d answered honestly since he didn’t see a reason not to. “About romance. About …”

And here he’d sputtered. He wasn’t about to make any confessions of love now, sitting on the sofa in front of the television with a head full of liquor; wasn’t going to wax philosophical about the long, long years he’d spent pining for Crowley, knowing that Crowley didn’t feel the same.

Knowing there was no way on Earth a demon could fall in love, and definitely not with an angel.

“About …?” Crowley had asked, but Aziraphale remained tight-lipped and shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter,” he’d replied.

And Crowley had shrugged it off and went back to the movie.

But out of the blue, not ten minutes later, Crowley turned off the television, climbed off the sofa, tossed Aziraphale his coat and said, “Come along, then. We’re going for a drive.”

And drive they have, taking the fastest, most chaotic tour of London Aziraphale has ever had the misfortune to participate in.

Crowley manages to drive past every single picturesque spot Frommer’s has ever touted without stopping, his gaze fixed vindictively on the sky overhead, guided by the shifting nimbostratus. They drive for over an hour, re-visiting a few places more than once but never leaving the car. Eventually Crowley seems to give up and head back to St. James’s Park. He grumbles something to the affect of, “Damned bloody clouds. There were a whole gang of you an hour ago! Where the Hell have you gone off to?” but he doesn’t explain.

He parks his car, throws on a boot to keep the cops off his back, then grabs Aziraphale’s hand and yanks him out. In determined silence, he drags the angel down the jogging paths and through the grass. Aziraphale pants behind Crowley as he fights to keep pace, and while he does, Crowley curses. He curses the blue sky peeking through the clouds, curses the golden rays warming their skin, curses the children coming out to celebrate the sunshine, their parents for bringing them when they should have work to do, even the dogs that accompany them for playing catch so enthusiastically, so focused on his goal, whatever it is, that he almost forgets Aziraphale stumbling along behind him until the angel speaks.

“Crowley … my dear … can we slow down?”

Crowley looks over his shoulder, eyes apologetic behind dark lenses as if he only now realized he might have been walking a hair too fast for him.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that.” Crowley stops on an obliging patch of grass to let Aziraphale catch his breath, shoulders slumped in defeat. He scans the grounds, glaring at every happy face in sight. He spies a solitary ice cream cart braving the weather and shrugs to himself.

“Fancy a lolly?” he asks, voice flat with disappointment.

“Oh, yes. Please.” Aziraphale smiles and nods, hoping that by agreeing he might lighten Crowley’s inexplicably sullen mood.

Plus, he could really use a nibble.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Aziraphale asks, following Crowley down the slope to the cart.

“Wanted to try something,” Crowley says gruffly, ordering Aziraphale a strawberry lolly, then waving off his change from the man at the cart.

Aziraphale smiles at the snack Crowley hands to him. “Trying your hand at being a hopeless romantic?” he teases, though he’s certain he’s way off the mark.

“So, what if I was?”

“It would be a first.”

“Would it really? I mean, I do try my best, Aziraphale. Sometimes, it’s just … not obvious.”

“I …” Aziraphale looks from the lolly melting on its stick to the demon standing in front of him - head bowed, fingertips shoved into pockets that have no business being called such, cheeks red and splotchy, yellow eyes staring at his shoes as he passes a single pebble from the toe of his left to the toe of his right. “I guess I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Yeah, well, not sure if you’ve noticed, but it’s not all that easy for me. Not when … you know … it _matters_.”

“Maybe I haven’t,” Aziraphale admits, thinking with regret over the times he’s felt sorry for himself that Crowley wasn’t making _the first move_ when he himself could have done so. Or when Crowley might have been, Aziraphale just didn’t catch on. It never occurred to Aziraphale that it might be difficult for Crowley. Aziraphale saw it along the same lines as tempting. If he could conjure feelings of lust in other people, he should be able to conjure similar feelings of love in himself.

Aziraphale realizes only now how wrong that thinking is.

How base and reductive.

“But thank you. It’s incredibly sweet that you tried.” Aziraphale puts a hand on Crowley’s shoulder and buoys up to kiss him on the cheek. Crowley turns into it, capturing Aziraphale’s lips, pulling him close with an arm wrapped around his waist. Aziraphale yelps in surprise, self-conscious at first, but then lost in kissing Crowley in St. James’s Park on such a beautiful, sunny afternoon.

“I’ve wanted to do that all day,” Crowley sighs against his angel’s lips. “For a while now, if I’m being honest.” 

“Why didn’t you?”

“I wanted it to be perfect. Memorable. And I thought … you know … considering our past, our history together, that rain would make it perfect. But it seems Mother Nature didn’t feel like cooperating.”

Aziraphale stares at Crowley wide-eyed for several seconds. Then he bursts out laughing. “Crowley! You _idiot_!”

“What!?”

“We’re _supernatural_. No need to negotiate with nature.” Aziraphale snaps his fingers. Over their heads, the clouds begin to gather, darkening the park so quickly, everyone takes notice. Laughter goes quiet as the humans huddle together, speculating in whispers over what might be going on. Suddenly, the sky crackles with electricity. A large boom shakes the air and rain pours down, drenching everyone … except Crowley and Aziraphale, standing quite comfortably beneath an invisible shield, one shaped suspiciously like an angel’s wing.

“Oh.” Crowley smirks. “Right. You’ve got a point.”

“So … are we just going to stand here, or are you going to kiss me again?”

“Aren’t you worried about the paperwork for …?” Crowley’s eyebrows bounce upward, indicating the rain, the wing, the screeching humans running for cover.

Aziraphale grins, not the least bit concerned. “Screw the paperwork.”

Before Aziraphale’s lips close on his, Crowley growls. “Ooo, _feisty_.”


End file.
